Radio Nowhere: a requiem for Zoe Nickerson

Bruce Springsteen’s stories and sounds have a certain picturesque charm to them, a melancholy beauty reminiscent of trains and star-crossed lovers. I’d heard so many times the hype that this new release, Magic, was Nebraska-era power that I had to know. Sing your heart out, Mr. Springsteen- I’m bawling my eyes out right now and it sounds good to me. It’s filled with conversations it feels like I just had.

But then, I’m rather emotional right now: I just returned from a wake. Titles like Last to Die and I’ll Work For Your Love have so many meanings in this the week that our wild, vivid Zoë hung herself in her room.

Zoë was dying, and nobody knew. I’d felt her coming apart at the seams but didn’t recognize that it was something this grave. Upheaval and distress are normal parts of life, and some were wounds we shared: other injuries we listened through as best we could. Friends. If I had to lock up every friend who was prone to fear or sorrow or, well, emotions, they’d have to build a lot more wards.

For me, for everyone, now we sift back through the past years for signs and we can find them, sure. But what did they mean, and what am I now reading too much into? Like many of Zoë’s kindred, I love meaningful signs and portents, the magical undercurrents of ordinary life. Zoë and I were both mesmerized by beautiful, radical life.

Zoë loved skeletons. She said she thought our bones were beautiful. But reading into that would be ridiculous. Our bones, after all, have essentially nothing to do with death, any more than our skin or muscles. They, too, turn to ashes. It seems ominous that she had all those skull necklaces, but I’ve got a few myself tangled somewhere in a drawer.

Zoë read beautiful books about Buddhism and Jesus and mythology. We both loved the spiritual writings of Thomas Moore. Zoë’s favourite books Anna Karenina and The Blind Assassin both centre on suicide. It might be a clue for me to reread the latter: Atwood’s book a wedding gift from mine and Zoë’s special friend, the monk. I’ve never delved into the lengthy classic Anna, and I’m not sure I will. Will I find what I hope to there? Doubt it. And if I had noticed this dark literary bent before, would it mean that I and every library branch and every literati/glitterati need 24-hour surveillance? We all have a copy of Plath’s The Bell Jar.

Still, now the grief-stricken and confused are questioning every conversation. I guess it is the ultimate separation to not know what went through a loved one’s mind in the darkest hour. Would it bring peace if I knew, or cause more distress because I don’t like that reason? There’s a damn good chance I’ll like some reasons even less than others. Can I find peace? Is it best to be angry? Did you just want to be famous? Were you peaceful? What’s it like there? Are you with Marko? Do you still love me?

From my spot here sobbing on the ground, humbled by abject grief, this album feels wild. At the very least, it shows that our suffering is universal. Bruce just sang, “Now your death is upon us and we’ll return your ashes to the earth, and I know you’ll take comfort in knowing you’ve been roundly blessed and cursed.” This is for his friend Terry. Death- yuck, it’s so, umm, natural.

I don’t think Springsteen was on Zoë’s top ten list, but evidently she was on his. Seems this album was written for her, but that’s just in my head because the album features a song called Gypsy Biker and the whole thing is called Magic. On Sundays Zoë and I drank coffee and smoked pot and sang endlessly into hairbrushes in my room, always to alt-country goddess Lucinda Williams. Sometimes I thought Zoë looked a bit like Lucinda. I sure wish I could rock out with Zoë to this album. Those were beautiful days, mingled with other kinds of days, as always.

“The pages of Revelation lie open in your empty eyes of blue,” Bruce is saying.

Then I hear “Your head’s spinnin’ in diamonds and clouds, but pretty soon it turns out you’ll be comin’ down.” I just about lose it.

I could comment that the music on this album is made of that old-time heart rock, spun of layers of soul and effortless rhythms. It’s an event for music, after so many lacklustre offerings from all genres for years. Though some sparkling stars shone through- Arcade Fire, for example- rock was at an impasse and even our favourite giants like Bruce and U2 were teetering closely at the abyss of boring. Now it feels like early fall, the kind of autumns they had 15 years ago, when bittersweet flavours hung in the air: the days I worked at a gas station and was trying to learn guitar. The music brings my heart into this space of such deep longing and strangeness, but the lyrics are acutely contemporary. They all seem to say “Goodbye, Zoë.”

“On the road the sun is sinkin’ low, somebody’s hanging in the trees- this is what we’ll be,” Bruce sings in Magic. I understand that this might be the weirdest album review ever, but what is music if it doesn’t speak this deeply?

“The earth it gave away, the sea rose towards the sun, I opened up my heart to you, it got all damaged and undone.”

There’s not much more to say after that song: it’s called Living in the Future.

Baby, can you hear me?

“This is radio nowhere, is there anybody alive out there? This is radio nowhere, is there anybody alive out there?”

See, there are signs everywhere, but no answers.

In Geez’s Name, Amen

For Christmas last year I got Dad a saucy brass belt buckle “Jesus,” a Johnny Cash CD, and a copy of Geez Magazine. My dad’s got a pretty wacky sense of humour but I could tell he was uncomfortable with the belt buckle. I’d looked far and wide for the Christian fish symbol but when I found the garishly tacky alternate I knew I was probably going too far. Dad frowned and said that Jesus was more than a belt buckle. I knew he felt it was something worn too close to netherland for comfort, but I told him it was a unique opportunity to witness for the Lord. I believe God has a sense of humour, too, and mine is one gift he gave me.

Dad and I have different beliefs about God, but not that different, all things considered. He and mom raised us to believe in a loving God, but also to be accountable for our sins. Though I railed against religion for some time in my early twenties, as I struggled to make sense of the wrongdoings of church history and the blanket condemnation of human sexuality and alternate belief systems, you can’t really argue with the ten commandments. When various tragedies nearly broke me, I found myself on my knees, a place I felt God’s comfort when there was little to be had in the platitudes of the world. Where once I had questioned the validity of glorifying the suffering of a misjudged super-man named Jesus, now I felt closer to him in my own pain. Though most churches hold little allure for me intellectually and even spiritually, the deep portraits of the human heart as laid out in the Good Book are a goldmine in historical philosophy and poetry. I often wished Christianity were more inclusive, more contemporary, and more socially conscious. After all, Christ ministered to outcasts and was one himself- wasn’t there room for me to feel welcome?

Then Geez came along. Geez is an absolutely radical Canadian magazine that covers current social, environmental and spiritual issues. It’s tagline reads “holy mischief in an age of fast faith”. This gem doesn’t shy away from all the major issues that are real in today’s world- abortion, environmental destruction, war and what is it good for, spiritual emptiness. Without purporting to know what God thinks about everything, it urges the faithful and the backslidden or even the unbeliever to find a deeper meaning in today’s consumer climate. I was pretty sure its departure from fundamentalist interpretations would make Dad uncomfortable, but we often exchange books with the promise to read them and discuss them so that we can agree, disagree, or agree to disagree. While I believe it’s our spiritual obligation to progress forward in art, literature and science, Dad feels all those steps are empty without God. Geez is like a friend that bridges those gaps and doesn’t hide from difficult questions- kind of like Geezus himself. Best of all, so far Geez does it all ad-free, and will do so for as long as it is able to.

“The idea originated with my colleague Aiden Enns. He was working at Adbusters and feeling like the addition of a spiritual dimension to a counter-corporate magazine would be worth pursuing. When Aiden moved back to Winnipeg after wrapping up his time with Adbusters, he asked me and some others to be involved. We recognized a depth of largely untapped creativity on the fringes of faith and wanted to tap into that energy and nurture it,” says editor Will Braun.

Fans of the Canadian-born Adbusters Magazine laud the forward thinking design, the absence of advertising influence on editorial comment, and the deep reflection on the ills of society. But many criticize the magazine for being unable to offer real solutions for the tragedies of war, greed, and despair. The influence of this great magazine is evident in the design, voice and flare of Geez, but there is a more positive, solution-oriented depth in Geez, an inherent spirituality that may combat the hopelessness of the world’s conditions.

“We are certainly indebted to Adbusters as a source of inspiration. Their use of images and use of a narrative flow for each issue are important contributions to the art of magazine making. We hope to offer some of the same sort of counter-corporate messaging as Adbusters but with emphasis on the spiritual and religious dimensions of how society works. Religion and spirituality are integral aspects of society, and we have given ourselves the permission to talk about the best and the worst of religion. I think we’re also trying to have a little more smirk and a little less sneer than Adbusters – a somewhat more upbeat tone,” Braun states.

It’s more than Adbusters goes to church. “We’ve set up camp in the outback of the spiritual commons. A bustling spot for the over-churched, out-churched, un-churched and maybe even the un-churchable. A location just beyond boring bitterness. A place for wannabe contemplatives, front-line world-changers and restless cranks. A place where the moon shines quiet, instinct runs mythic and belief rides a bike,” reads the Geez website.

With campaigns like Make Affluence History and Buy Nothing Christmas, Geez seeks to dethrone the almighty dollar and re-throne the Almighty, providing clues in its extensive coverage to how we might find space for God in this troubled and amazing world we live in.

Future plans include topics like sustainable farming and facing our fears, and past issues have tackled problems with evangelism and seeing wonder in a world full of trials and tribulations. While fundamentalist spirituality may view Geez’s inclusive, humourous text as wishy-washy, Braun doesn’t see it that way.

“ I am a Mennonite farm boy from the Bible Belt of Manitoba. Sometimes Mennonites drive me nuts, but I claim my heritage and identity. I don’t really see it as a choice – it’s who I am. I believe it is okay to have a love-hate relationship with the church. I don’t have to decide if it is all good or all bad. It is both – like me – and I can be part of it anyway. I believe in being connected to other people. It is popular these days to say ‘I am spiritual but not religious.’ I say bunk to that. I am worried that that leads to the individualization of belief – we all just pick and choose our own little beliefs and do our own thing. It can be a rather arrogant, me-first approach. I think the individualization of belief is the end of belief. Faith is about connecting to that which is larger than ourselves, and doing so in humility, recognizing the value of relating with others who have varying beliefs and lives. I believe in organized spirituality. I want to be part of a collection of people that includes different generations, people of widely varying backgrounds, and people with whom I disagree.”

For Braun, the central message of the Bible is loud and clear. Love is much more difficult than hatred but it’s the only answer. “I believe there is great wisdom in the Biblical narrative … I am particularly drawn to stories of discovering the mystery of love on the margins of society. There is something vital that cannot be discovered in the halls of power, the very best schools, or among the brightest artists. It is something that can only be discovered among people who are left out, people who have no status. This is integral to the message and lives of Jesus, Gandhi, Henri Nouwen, Dorothy Day, Jean Vanier, Oscar Romero and others. I seek to be drawn toward this mystery of love.”

Geez has ventured forth with new ideas and amazing accomplishments, and one of them is running ad-free. “ I think it is an important experiment. We can’t just start with the assumption that advertising is a necessary evil. We’re not dead set against any advertising, but at this point we find it very gratifying to produce a magazine in which money and message do not mix, and in which ads do not interrupt the visual flow of the magazine,” Braun says. Other highlights include “Burning $100 to say that maybe money isn’t the answer (Geez 02)…Sending the editor (me) on a 1,200-mile bicycle trip to speak on behalf of Geez at a conference. Receiving positive feedback from atheists… Printing the sort of articles that wouldn’t really fit in any other magazine we know of. Presenting a taste of the monastic tradition to readers.” In addition to encouraging environmental responsibility in the tone and topics within the mag, the pages are printed on 100% post-consumer-waste recycled paper.

The Winnipeg publication can pat itself on the back for recently winning a whole heap of awards. At the Western Magazine Awards, Geez won for both Best New Publication and Western Canada Magazine of the Year. Last year, Utne Independent Press Awards nominated Geez for Best New Publication and Best Spiritual Coverage. Geez won seven awards from the Canadian Church Press, including Original Artwork, Narrative, General Excellence, and Personal Experience. For a quarterly that has been around less than two years, this is astounding. Evidently this self-professed “experiment with truth” has the Big Guy on its side.

Geez encourages your involvement, through submissions and subscriptions. Head to www.geezmagazine.org for information on subscribing, telling your story, or getting involved in projects like De-Motorize Your Soul. You can be a part of this revolutionary/revelationary action plan: “Because it’s time we untangle the narrative of faith from the fundamentalists, pious self-helpers and religio-profiteers. And let’s do it with holy mischief rather than ideological firepower. We’ll explore the point at which word, action and image intersect, and then ignite. So let’s blaspheme the gods of super-powerdom, instigate spiritual action campaigns and revamp that old Picture Bible.”

All things considered, I doubt Dad will ever wear the belt buckle- perhaps it was in poor taste. But the great Johnny Cash will make for an appropriate soundtrack for dusky evenings after prayer meeting on Dad’s back porch. Johnny’s gravelly soul and the serenade of crickets and twittering birds in the twilight by the farm’s pond is just a perfect backdrop for reading Geez. Our responses may differ, but time together to reflect on them is the most amazing of God’s gifts, and isn’t that how communion/community begins after all?

www.geezmagazine.org

www.thegirlcanwrite.net
Lorette C. Luzajic

This interview originally appeared in Idea Factory: an Exquisite Quarterly

Eat, Drink and Be Mary

Zelda’s is not your average nosh pit: it’s Toronto’s one and only trailer camp. Keeping camp alive is the name of the game. Queer history keeps writing itself, and we’re integrating seamlessly in a progressive post-Will and Grace-culture. But certain ebulliences of bygone days are necessary complements to our life of Starbucks, Ellen, Utne Reader and the urban dog park (where we’ve never had to sit at the back of the bus!) These include rags like Fab- (because tacky journalism must never die), old-time and heavily powdered queens who remember Shirley Bassey, the feather boa, and the penchant for lisping that neither scientists nor theorists can yet explain but which has such a comforting lull. This is the place where it will always be cool to say “work it, girl” and have fussy pink or purple cocktails. This is the place where no one forgets about Erasure. Think of pink flamingoes and beehive wigs and you’re already here.

No matter that no waiter will sashay toward your table in the time it takes you to say “Cher”. Or, in fact, to read the whole menu and the Fab Boy blurb as well: there is no effing hurry, dahhhling. Now lounge! Zeldatinis like Yeehaw, Bitch Slap, and Sugartits will get you off in the right direction. Hopefully they’ll have karaoke somewhere tonight! Expect your ambience to be swaddled in pink and velvet drapery and gauzes, supremely tacky retro wallpaper, and severed mannequin bits glued all higgly piggly in every manner of boa and Fame-set legwarmer. Yeah, baby, of course the festive and the fey didn’t forget those patio lanterns, tiki lights and buoyant bubbling baubles of light and yeah, order another one of those lip smacking…things with those little umbrellas….

If you’re lucky, Donnarama will be headlining tonight. Long live Cher and Shania but the real dame of Church St. is this brilliant female illusionist and her signature performances of Courtney Love. You never know what song or genre or even gender Donnarama will be next: she’s done Barbra, Bjork and Elton John.

Truly, wacky drag shows are staples here, one of the things that make Zelda’s so fabulous. The campiest wait staff don’t work here, they ‘work it’ here, or even ‘work it oouutt!” here. Other great stuff: ten years of bawdy, zany, humour, so much more buoyant than mine but still sufficiently twisted to feel at home with. Ten years of heavy community involvement and all kinds of trampy fundraising marathons. Zelda’s cares. It’s not all just face paint.

And girl, the gift just keeps on giving, ‘cause Zelda’s has pretty good food. It’s really rather yummy. The yam frites are by now a classic- gooey fries with a stellar dose of beta-carotene. The Mac and Cheese- well, that’s just tacky ol’ hilly billy food now iishn’t it, slurred Dolli Parton one night and I had to try it. Brandine, you’re just divine- oven baked and like, a half-dozen cheeses? The Billy Bob BLT is best for hangover breakfasts: it comes with maple-smoked bacon, a luuurvely detail. Goes down luuuurvely too with a nice Bloody Caesar- you know, while we’re having tomatoes. Honestly, just order anything. Zelda’s has pub food, from people who care about pub food. The burgers, the pierogies, all damn delicious and there’s always a detail or twist that stands out and there’s even vitamins in minerals in most of the selections. Groovy. The salads are wonderfully fruity, perfect for patio picnicking here with another two jugs- yes, jugs, you know, pitchers? of Jackie-Ohhhhh. The scrumptious and dutifully named Cala-mary the jalapeño munchers, and the Marvelous Meatloaf are all delightful.

Did I mention the staff loves to dress up? Go hang more often at Zelda’s- you’ll just be happier overall. You’ll be certain to hit a theme night, cause at Zelda’s, every day is gay Halloween. Which means you, too, can head to that lighthouse in the city in any possible getup without fear of being inappropriate. So c’mon over and have some fun.

Zelda’s
542 Church St.
416.922.2526

Lorette C. Luzajic
www.thegirlcanwrite.net

Shelter from the Norm: Toronto’s Metropolitan Community Church

Things are very peculiar these days. Everyone is going to church. Where I come from that’s the norm, but in my current circles, no one has much interest. Most don’t see any relevance for them, some just don’t believe, some have been permanently scarred and wounded and won’t be going back, and let’s face it, a whole lot of us just find it at best boring, and at worst, downright offensive.

The Good Lord has had me wrapped in the palm of his hand since I was a wee thing, but I’ve definitely spent the better part of my adulthood as a ‘Christmas and Easter’ kind of girl: out of respect to my family, I’ve gone to holiday services. There was just too much I could not swallow, and I’ve always believed there are thousands of ways to experience, worship, praise or meet God. Still, Christ did call us to church and it’s not his fault that most of them are downright seamy in their tunnel vision and lowbrow, high stake interpretations. My private altars and experiential philosophy would raise a few fundamentalist eyebrows, but I’ve never felt a need to apologize for my faith: it is certainly a fluid, changing, dynamic gift, moving deeper into understanding the ineffable as I am guided through life.

Unlike most church congregations, I never felt my beliefs were fragile enough to be threatened by other religions- better to incorporate them and learn more about the heart. I never felt historical discoveries, like last year’s Judas debacle, or the early church’s obvious pagan links, would shatter or make false the stories that were in my heart. My faith cannot be threatened by deeper illumination. I can’t profess to understand God, and therefore as He unveils himself more deeply, I do not have to be afraid of what is shown. I don’t think a bit of history or anthropology or science can be a threat. The Big Man can duke it out for himself. He doesn’t need my whining, painfully limited human perception to try to explain him.

I was happy not to waste my perfectly good Sundays in a musty old building with Reverend Lovejoy droning impossibly foolish interpretations, insulting my intelligence. As the years went by, though, I stopped being cynical and let people receive whatever they needed, let them go to church in peace. After all, even if I thought they were greatly misled, or corrupt, or broken, it’s not like the places I found myself congregating were filled with people who had figured it all out- raves, poetry readings, drag shows, cannabis legalization rallies. Once I wrote in a poem, “And some to whom she gave herself were vampires, and some were owls, wise souls who could see in the dark.” Church, like school, politics, and nightclubs, is filled with people, so it is bound to have crackpots, sociopaths, and dictators as well as more reasonable thinkers, the compassionate, and a few beautiful losers.

It always bothered me that the church is so frightened of homosexuals- in my experience; queers are a rather evolved, tolerant, intelligent, creative lot. They are funny, fabulous, theatrical, sensitive, bright and good-natured. And they understand Madonna. Certainly there are endless variations, but I think any fruit fly worth her salt would agree that the fey and the gay are a festive, endearing people. There is not much to be frightened of- though those under a misdirected, foolish notion that masculinity should be about belching, arm muscles, and how big your gun is likely find it frustrating that gays do so well with women. They can’t imagine why, but should take a few pointers: stylish, witty, hygienic, and not constantly pawing at the ladies.

I believe sex is sacred, and using it wisely might save a great deal of heartache, though those wounds can be deeply spiritual teachers. It’s none of my business what other people do when they have sex, but it seems to me gays at least have a more cheerful sex spirit than many others, and if you’re not makin’ a baby tonight, then it should be mutual and celebratory. You may view gay sex as a sin, but then what about yours? Heterosexuality is a dangerous, chthonian garden of decadence- seems it’s nothing but porn, prostitution, rape, serial killing, child molesting, wife battering, and jealousy killings. A veritable army of darkness. Even more disturbing is the fact that in so many heterosexual exchanges, the lady is unwilling – as men have long lamented, women have very different sexual needs and desires that may not include being forced, degraded, beaten, or a frequency of ten times a day.

Anyhow, it’s just tit for tat- but taking it beyond sex, I would ask the church why they have tormented so many gays who have as much right to a spiritual home as anyone else. If you lived a thousand years ago in Syria you may have thought being gay was a sin, but did you also denigrate all who had lied, eaten gluttonously, stolen, gambled, cheated on the wife, spoke cruelly to someone less fortunate, walked by a hungry person, yelled at the kids? I’m convinced instead it’s the theatre and the profound interiority sex acts can bring us to or take us from that tests our character and teaches us about relating. Mistakes are made, hearts are broken, and without that, neither can we give our gifts to the right one (s), nor can we fully know what they are.

But let’s suppose it’s really a sin for two grrls to rub their boobies together (I know, I know, when you frightened homophobes are thinking of gay sex, you’re worrying about sodomy, not about this!) Forgive me if you find me flippant or out of line- I don’t think I am and I think skirting the issue can’t get my point across faster. I do not mean any disrespect, though my forthrightness has knotted many a knicker before! I just think if you really think about what you fear, you can dissolve that fear. Recall that not that long ago- oh, yeah, today- the church thought masturbation is a sin. But everyone over nine knows that everyone does it, and that it is unhealthy not to. So, back to my point- if a specific act or context to an act is sin (like before marriage, for example, which conveniently used to make all gay acts automatic highways to hell), are we then to really turn literally to the Bible for sex advice? Is this where we model our libido?

Ummm, I don’t really want to seduce my father or sleep with my slaves and servants. It seems the Mormons are on track with polygamy, and it’s great that the Big Book is so laissez-faire about extra wives and prostitution. Here’s also where guys can say they want to hire 800 hookers! Well, King Solomon got to keep them all, too. The O.T. is an endless array of desert lusts, all in the family. We would have to stop locking rapists up and force him to marry his victim. That sounds like exactly the kind of peace of mind Jesus wants for rape victims. Jesus said, “Why do you look at the speck of sawdust in your brother’s eye and pay no attention to the plank in your own eye? How can you say to your brother, ‘Let me take the speck out of your eye,’ when all the time there is a plank in your own eye?” (Matthew 7: 3,4)

Back when I was twelve, no one at my church was familiar with this passage. My best childhood friend was a bright, dapper fellow whose effeminacy became more and more evident as we approached our teens. After endless sobbing, soul searching, and on his part, suicidal thoughts to escape the shame and persecution that his natural-born gifts inspired from his family and his church, I had a revelation. It was pretty obvious all at once to me that the church was simply wrong. J. was still J. He was not a monster and he was no more and no less a sinner than anyone else. In fact, his confusing orientation, difficult though it was for him, was a beautiful gift. J. would not have been the charming, highly creative, very funny and near genius mind if he were straight. His identity was all tied together- you could not remove one part. A talented actor, he would not have fit his persona of child protégé with any aplomb whatsoever if he weren’t gay. Not that being straight would have been bad- it would have been easier- but he would not have been J. Our friendship was precious and long-lasting- if he’d been straight, it would have gotten confused a few years in when we reached puberty. J. was my soul-mate right up until he died at 31 of cancer, the source of my happiest memories of childhood and one who understood and loved me without question.

There seems to be a lot more effort put into ex-gay movements then into ex-racist, ex-liar, or ex-wife-beater movements. But I digress. Regardless of what became of any of those cruel, insecure “Christians” who taunted (how about an ex-bully movement while we’re at it?) J., I was the one who did not miss out on his tremendous life and the gift he was to me and many others who could see him. My lifelong dramarama of reigning fag hag began at age ten when J. came to sing at my family church. And though I didn’t know it until very recently, a trip we made in our early teens to the forbidden Gomorrah, the ‘gay church’, was God speaking a long way back, giving me a spiritual home in my unconscious mind, so that when I was ready to plunk myself in a pew some 20 years later, it would be in “a place of prayer for all people.”

The Lord works in mysterious ways, as Dad always said, and true enough that Dad will find this very mysterious indeed and definitely not in accord with his own theologies. But I’ll just have to say that’s okay, because God invited me. He invited us as children when J. and I were supportive friends, working through identity problems that weren’t problems after all. Because my heart opened to J. it later opened to a whole slew of fabulous people, and I am never happier than when surrounded by a gaggle of drama queens. No book launch, no art show, no party is complete without them. I have many straight friends, males and females, in case you are wondering. But I have always been the favourite Grace (well, I relate more to Karen) for many Wills and Jacks.

Reading over this, it seems I made only sweeping mentions of lesbians- rest assured, some of my best friends….heh heh. Ironically, my husband had his own gaggle of girls- not my girls, but, er, the ladies who lunch. He enjoyed the companionship of women who could throw back a cold one and call him ‘dude’ and discuss politics and lift bricks with equivalent ease. He definitely enjoyed my circuit as well, but hey, he and the girls enjoyed cement mixing and bourbon mixing at the same time.

Back to the gift of J. -a particularly precious one: I may well have wandered from God if I had not had the poetry of our friendship, our private Terabithia, to explore the questions in. God spoke through this special man and gave a melancholy child a happy muse. But God has been speaking through homosexuals for thousands of years, and every last one of the haters and everybody else on the planet has received those gifts but is too arrogant in spirit to even recognize it. The grandeur, the glory, and the beauty- what would there be of the aesthetic without the homosexual? What of art, especially and including European religious art- those who do not like or get contemporary art, and those who do, would find it hard to argue against the most sacred Christian masterpieces. How can we blindly go through our work and play and live in our culture and not acknowledge the debt that culture owes to homosexuals? Whatever your flavour- whether it’s classical music or Hollywood cinema, gaygaygaygaygay.

Am I saying that every last artistic expression is gay? No, of course not. But would our legacy of art, film, literature, even religion exist at all without the homo’s hand? No way. Not a chance.

Think about it, people, use your heads. While many of God’s soldiers might consider poetry too queer to care about, off the bat, they likely aren’t considering how many writers of hymns and liturgies were gay. Hymns are poetry, too. Da Vinci, Michelangelo- could history have come this far without their contributions? Then, there’s the libertine Shakespeare. Do you think he’d really know so much about men and women if he weren’t on both sides? Music? Can you spell Tchaikovsky? Love architecture? Fabulous, dahling!

You get the picture. I could go on forever. We would be sorely lacking for good movies, good cuisine, and an artistic legacy if it weren’t for the creativity of many gay men and women. Part of their unique gift is the time in which to output creativity- when you’re not raising a passel of brats, you get time to explore God’s other gifts of creation. I am incredibly grateful to all of those writers, artists, and philosophers who changed their world and influenced history. Whether their expressions were documents of the time, giving us historical record, or aesthetics to let beauty flourish in difficult times, I thank them. I live in a world of books and music, a place where imagination brings me a deeper relationship with the spirit. It would supremely suck if we removed all the queer content from our lives.

With all this ingratitude and the harrowing traumas homos have endured from the flock, it’s no surprise that most of my boyz are atheists. While some are exquisitely spiritual, many secretly belittle my beliefs- they haven’t seen the church do much for women, either. Not all think the bathhouse is church, though, – the second most religious person I know is a gay candy raver I met when he was 19 and I was a decade older. He was one of those owls who could see in the dark. Now he is an ordained Buddhist monk and speaks Chinese, Thai, Tibetan and Laotian. He travels around the world and the various monasteries he is with are at turns contemplative: at other turns, he is ministering to trannies and addicts. Many friends mocked his path and asked him to stay gay- he did, but he has no issue with vows of celibacy, which are in place to avoid all distractions of the heart and loin. I do not take offense at the anger our friends may rightly feel at spiritual traditions, and neither does he. I can fully understand it. The many shortcomings of Christian history are what kept me out of the church for so long. But the weekend Tammy Faye passed on, I woke up and thought, “Take me to the church of the KLF.”

(Inside joke with the dead- sorry about that. Hope some of you old school hipsters recall the legendary KLF album The White Room. It was popular at Komrads.)

Okay, I’d been dealing with some private personal struggles and felt the need for a bit of community and some liturgy. At home prayer was fine, but after the debris settled down after a number of earth-shattering losses (one of them J.), I felt disconnected from the earth, I felt I was freefalling. I’d also started smoking again after quitting for multiple years and knew a little face-to-face with the Lord might give me the strength to treat my body like the temple that it is. (Proudly an ex-smoker again!) I nonchalantly checked out a couple of churches in my area. They were all right but I went once and did not return. I was looking to go only occasionally anyhow, so that suited me fine. I longed for childhood comforts of praise and singing, and felt old enough to look past offensive theologies.

As I wandered toward the random church chosen for that particular day, I recalled that I’d been down that road before. As I entered, I suddenly understood why some churches are called sanctuary- I had never felt sanctuary at church in my life. But here it was. This was the place I had come with J. so long ago. This was what is still called The Gay Church. This church seemed custom designed for Lorette! I was elated to look around and see so many gay worshippers- our tribe deserves more fellowship and fewer vapid parties- but the sign at the front said “ a place of prayer for all people” and I did not for a second feel out of place. Gay? Maybe. Red and yellow, black and white, they are precious in his sight- and they were all here. A real cast of characters, and a pew with my name on it.

Good thing there was Kleenex strategically placed in the pews, because tears streamed down my face. Aside from the welcoming smiles, the wonderfully theatrical piano player’s expressive talent, the handshakes and hugs, there was Reverend Brent Hawkes. How I’d managed not to get here sooner, I don’t know. Of course I was aware of Brent Hawkes and his longstanding humanitarian efforts and how he literally risked his life to lead a church where all were welcomed. I’d been reading and writing, after all. It’s a perfect example of how compartmentalized the intellect and the spirit can be. I knew more about the church than I knew- it had never occurred to me to come and find out in person.

The funny thing is, when I was a kid, we had to door-to-door ‘witnessing’ and inviting people to attend our church. It was embarrassing sometimes but I took it very seriously and likely made a convincing case to anybody I disturbed. For all the hundreds I’d invited, maybe a handful came.

I’m sure the evangelical would envy what has happened here in a few short weeks. I did invite one person, because he is Christian and because he is gay. To my surprise, he and his roommate had just been discussing attending the MCC. And so we all went. The next week, a beloved and troubled friend dropped by in the wee hours, distressed and hurting. In the morning, to my shock, he asked me if I went to church. This man, open-minded and bright, not gay, had a great deal on his mind, his broken life a raw wound that I could hardly balm or salve for a few hours. But together we went to church, and went forward for an anointing of healing. I haven’t heard from this friend since, but I know that in that ceremony a ray of love entered his lonely, hurting heart. Then yesterday, my most pragmatic friend, a man of reason, quite gay, and not at all religious, called me up and asked if he could join me at church, “out of curiousity.” I was mortified that the service went twice as long as usual, worrying that speeches and unfamiliar songs would be a bit much after awhile. But then my friend, who made use of those Kleenex, said he felt the experience was uplifting and he may even come again one day.

I know I will be. It’s good to be home.

Lorette C. Luzajic
www.thegirlcanwrite.net

Requiem for a Queen

Crazy Paul was a sublet roommate for a friend of a friend. In the early days, barely knowing him, we could already see his insanity, endearing and absolute.

Paul’s blue box overflowed with empty wine and champagne bottles and his door welcomed dozens of friends a day. Popping over to Paul’s always involved a glass of wine, or many more, regardless of the hour. “Breakfast of champions,” often included party favours stronger than wine. No one could keep pace with Crazy Paul.

It was clear he never slept. He wore seven outfits a day. Cowboy boots with a dress were not uncommon. His place was so cluttered with antiques and ribbons and books and glowing candelabra that we all feared for fire as much as we feared not finding a chair. Chairs were occupied with fine china and dried flowers- or vagrants from the gay clubs taking refuge in a safe, friendly apartment to wait off their party excesses.

Paul was never too ripped to look after anyone too ripped to look after himself. But in the end he died young from cirrhosis and very few of the many revelers who made themselves at home spent time with him in his last days in hospital.

Of course, some were already dead. His circle was rife with festivity, but with tragedy as well.

Paul was a bit of a saint and a bit of a nutter, to say the least, and the lifestyle he embraced seems outrageous but isn’t entirely alien to most. Alcohol-related illness is very common. Most people have lost someone to the world of fermented grapes and barley, including my mom. Though ‘drugs for fun’ is not within her own experience, she’s familiar with Paul’s penchant for hoarding baubles. The gaiety of Crazy Paul’s circle is familiar to me and its theatrical electricity was humourous and comforting.

Sadly, Paul’s world eventually submerged him and the risk that I could get lost or caught up in its elements was heavy. You could see the ending coming a mile away. Still, none of this reduces the validity of loving Paul, a complex, intricate human being who battled his sorrows with dignity and infectious laughter. He battled his own darkness with less dignity, but hey, don’t we all.

We can certainly take a lesson in living from Paul no matter where we fit in comfort or familiarity with his story. Paul understood he was ill and would die from his excesses, and he used the time he had left to care for others, encourage and support them, to live in even more outrageous outfits, to express his love out loud to those he cared for, to mourn more fully the dead and their unique imprint on us, to decorate more vividly, to forego banal necessities and take up painting, to read fun things and cook Italian gourmet at midnight, to ask others about their experiences of God.

Crazy Paul was waiting for a new liver, but knew it was unlikely to come in time to save his life. He as a firecracker until dementia set in atop his already eccentric spirit. Even when he was down for the count, weak and bedridden in a palliative care ward, he still roamed the grounds mentally, pointing out the hilarious personality traits of his new roommates.

It’s a simple fact that too many nights with Crazy Paul as a neighbour meant too many nights of missed sleep. I recall one hellish night that the music and laughter kept pumping into the wee hours. I hate to rain on a happy parade, but there were parades 24/7. I’ve never known anything like it. On this particular night I was not able to shut out the happy clomping of a veritable square dance upstairs. I called and called, to no avail. No one could hear the phone.

In desperation, I took a broom and banged it against the ceiling. But mere minutes after an attempted hushing, the Shirley Bassey and Diana Ross marathon was pumping up the volume.

Angry, I got dressed and braved the building halls in the middle of the night. When I knocked, some vaguely familiar queens handed me a beer, and the place was as smoky with cigars and weed as a saloon full of hippies. The floor was littered with frocks and there was a whole lot of flower arranging going on. And Crazy Paul was not even home.

Paul never locked his door or turned anyone away, apparently not even when he wasn’t home! The landlord did, of course, eventually evict him, but I had long moved to a quieter part of town.

Paul was larger than life; a real personality from another era of gay history, one that long preceded my De La Soul-era entry. I relish the lengthy, noiseless, sketch free nights, idling peacefully in front of the TV, loafing about with my cats, no dramas within earshot. But I miss Paul and I wish his demise had been much later. Still, he lived all at once, which his kind of nutter archetype can spur us to do. With healthy boundaries, we’ll find ways to trip the light fantastic in ways that won’t pollute our kidneys and skew our perceptions. But I know I can’t spend all my spare time watching Seinfeld. There are real people, real dramas, real jokes and real magic to be a part of.

It’s a good idea to go a little crazy, fuss about, and bring our friends flowers. Ever wonder about those people in Ed Hopper’s paintings? Well, go and ask them. Exchange stories.

Thomas Moore writes at length about the re-enchantment of everyday life, and he can be a wonderful guide into the magical world around you. The door opens when we open our eyes. There’s a whole vivid tapestry of characters that populate this enchanting planet, and Paul was one of them.

Poor Paul, he became so small and vulnerable as he lay wasting, later, in a hospital bed. Abandoned in the corner of the tiny room was a pile of cowboy boots and a feather boa, never to be worn again. His streaked orange hair was comical in the dull, utilitarian surrounding. It’s one of my last visions of Paul that reassures me that despite the pain he was in, he didn’t die in torment. Surfacing to consciousness after days asleep, he sat up groggily and looked around in confusion. All he said before falling back to rest was, “Darling, the poinsettia would look fabulous over there.”

Lorette C. Luzajic
www.thegirlcanwrite.net

What the Conjure Man Can Tell Us

I finally went to see David Copperfield. This is how I want every weekend to be: I head into a comfortable arena and watch the impossible take place before my very eyes. It’s been a while since my mind was last blown by anything. What a trip.

No, he’s not on my “list of five” . But he does have a ribald humour that occasionally veers into genius and sometimes veers into the doghouse. This aside, Copperfield is witty, fun to be with, and well… evidently smarter than everyone else in the world.

Obviously, 13 people didn’t disintegrate into cosmic filigree, but where did they go? If I can’t see what’s happening before me with any relation to reason or science, how do I believe wholeheartedly my perceptions of reality each and every day? Certainly my forays into various altered or enhanced realities (that ‘we are astronauts’ thing I’m always babbling about) have convinced me that nothing is ordinary, that the pulse of God is wild and earth-shattering, that air is solid matter and the mind is infinitely deeper that we know. I believe that the things we don’t understand outnumber in the gazillions the things we do. Technology has not brought us to the end of our exploration, or even the climax of our knowledge. It’s more like we have finally cracked the window open. The impossible has become commonplace- not long ago it would have been considered voodoo that a tiny box held up to our ear meant we could talk to friends all over the globe. Our minds are set to sky dive through knowledge and explore realities glimpsed and not yet seen.

We haven’t reached our apex of creativity, not by a long shot. Art, invention, medicine, religion, science, and mathematics are mere tools to understanding what we don’t even know yet is out there. I hope our planet can sustain this illuminated path of our evolution and doesn’t conk out from the greed and exploitation in the darker part of our hearts. If it can’t, I hope we learn from our gluttony and warfare and resume a forward direction in the next world.

David Copperfield is the man who can fly, the man who can send a woman to Australia with a wave of his hand, the man who made the Statue of Liberty disappear before thousands of onlookers. Pulling ducks out of a bucket is astounding enough: though this old staple of sleight of hand has long been explained, it’s still an awe-inspiring warm up for the more fantastical illusions that shattered what I know about perception. Copperfield is obviously a man who can see more possibilities than your average Joe. The fact that his illusions defy the laws of physics merely means we aren’t as far into a full understanding of these laws as we think. Clearly, the most basic things we know to be true are false, and this man has glimpsed a deeper understanding.

Copperfield asserts that the answers are obvious- that he is an illusionist, and we are not witnessing what we think we are. Great thinkers in science and art are unable to fully explain his tricks, and yet they are tricks. Theories abound- a popular explanation for the disappearing Statue of Liberty is that the audience was on a rotating stage that moved imperceptibly to face another direction. Maybe- but at least one person would have noticed while stretching or something that the statue was looming behind him! The psychology department at the University of Massachusetts Lowell put a bit more thought into their explanation and drew up some fancy charts and graphs to depict ocular perceptions. “Psychophysicists refer to light intensity as a physical variable and brightness as a psychological variable,” Dr. David T. Landrigan wrote online. His assured understanding of the way light falls on our retinas is very likely closer to the truth about the illusion than anything else, but for your average bright-not-genius thinker like myself, statements like “patterns of voltage variations in the process called “transduction”” can only mean what I already know- that my eye is not seeing what I think it is seeing. In the case of Copperfield’s arsenal of mind games, even when someone figures out how it works, it still works.

Consider the magic trick sets we all gave our niece or nephew once. The instructions were easy enough for anyone to follow, yet most kids lost interest in perfecting the basic illusions after awhile. Even simpler, long-explained card and coin tricks took precision and practice to perform convincingly. Sleight of hand is not a skill that just anyone can master, even if their scientific prowess can determine how it would work. The why of it all doesn’t guarantee an ability to orchestrate the components or the patience to time them precisely. Copperfield says many of his tricks take two years of practice to develop, some take seven years, and all require committed repeating and tremendous imagination.

The science of conjure can teach us something we have forgotten: make-believe. Recall how nothing was impossible when we were toddlers, though the simplest things still required our learning and memorization. What is an apple? Why is red not yellow? There is still stuff to learn along these lines. Christ said in Mark 10:14-15, “Suffer the little children to come unto me and forbid them not, for of such is the kingdom of God. Verily I say unto you, whosoever shall not receive the kingdom of God as a little child, he shall not enter therein.” Perhaps he was referring simply to this whole concept I was seeing on Saturday- the knowledge that we haven’t figured out how everything works just yet. To enter into truth, whether we are physicists or painters, we have to suspend disbelief and not sit on our laurels. Of course there’s an explanation, but waiting for one that fits our understanding means missing out on just about everything in life. At the same time, we should show curiousity and imagination, for within the realm of make-believe, as children know, is the reflection of all truth.

Copperfield is a man of few predecessors. How many Houdinis or David Blaines are out there, compared to the other arts? The conjure man has been a rare entity, but whether that figure is a voodoo practitioner or the modern Copperfield, the lesson is that science IS deep magic. Scientists pit themselves against alien landings, angels, and the mass spiritual beliefs of the times, but the truth is that science is the explorer of these things. Science may say it opposes God, but it is actually actively trying to figure God out. Voodoo might be a good way into the understanding of this concept -how often does the mojo lady say in the movies that you have to believe for the spell to work? The superstitious arts stated clearly before science began debunking their world of possibilities that the illusion is in the perception and the power is in the mind. It’s not “magic”- or is it? Magic IS the manipulation of what we believe. It IS the power of our minds, which is largely untapped. Science is knocking at the door of mystery, which resounds loudly against all of our learning so far. Religion and superstition will abound eternally among humans, as long as we can remain humble enough to know we don’t know. Even scientists and psychologists must humbly admit that prayer and religion have untold powers- one of those powers is happiness. Cultures that value religion and imagination- the unknown- are happier and more fulfilled than cultures that focus solely on the few things we already know for sure. (I’m not going to get into all of the negative aspects of religion or argue whose is ‘right’- suffice it to say that humans of all faith persuasions have showed themselves corrupt at various junctures, and all human societies struggle with greed and power and the lust to kill. These weaknesses are not specific to a particular belief system, and atheistic cultures are arguably as corrupt as any other.)

Don’t get the impression that my unavoidable lapses into the science of magical thinking mean Copperfield’s show is anything like Sunday school. I’m a person who must embrace mystery and imagination because God gives life meaning and keeps my humble astonishment alive day-to-day. But there are no dry Old Testament lessons here- at least not on the surface. You won’t witness plagues of locusts or manna falling from the heavens. But unless you can explain exactly how a giant green car appeared on stage out of thin air, Mr. Copperfield is way ahead of you. One particularly astonishing feat was his “lottery number prediction”- the results were quadruple-locked in a caged box that was visible to us the whole time. Random audience members stood up and picked six random numbers between one and 50. When the box was opened, the written prediction indeed showed in clear black marker the very numbers selected! On top of that, two license plates that belonged to Copperfield’s grandfather showed the same six numbers!

From reading online, I discovered that many had seen this lottery trick. I was initially disappointed, assuming that the random number callers were planted. But then I learned that the prediction held different numbers each time, accurately “predicting” completely different variables every time. A related trick was actually predicting the winning numbers in a lottery, opening the box after the numbers were announced on the news.

Skeptics would balk that the audience members were not actually volunteers, but plants. Plants are a trick for amateur illusionists. Of course there is an explanation, otherwise he’d be winning the lottery on a daily basis and no one else would have a chance. The casino he performed in would go out of business. Yes, there is an explanation, but not one as easy as that.

Beyond Copperfield’s magnetic persona and monstrous intelligence, beyond his bag of tricks, there are “real world” reasons to admire him. He says his most important accomplishment is his Project Magic, a program adopted by over 1000 hospitals around the world. Here’s a simple and achievable trick: give kids an imaginative pursuit to help raise their self-esteem and sense of wonder when they are in chronic pain or are burdened with disabilities. By teaching tricks to sick kids, Copperfield helps them regain dexterity. He says that giving them an ability that able-bodied people don’t have is valuable to their sense of worth, which aids recovery.

Copperfield is also instrumental in preserving relics of a unique and rare heritage of illusion arts. His International Museum and Library of the Conjuring Arts in Nevada houses more than 80 000 artifacts, including a vast library of books, objects of illusion, posters and prints, items owned by Houdini and other magicians, and more. Sifting through these objects of fascination might provide an unexpected insight into science: recall how many inventors like Nikola Tesla were viewed in their day as “mad scientists” as they brought impossible things like electric light into the light of day. We don’t even think about it when we turn on the lights, but once upon a time this was a miracle.

The best part of witnessing these fantastic feats of the imagination is the effect the event has already had on my future. Often, we forget to be inspired. Life can take on a familiar but monotonous routine of work, cooking, and Law and Order reruns. Bearing witness to tricks of this scale has already reminded me of the magic within mundane tasks, like spicing my food- after all, once even paprika was so exotic that adventurers and conquestors had to cross the ocean for it. What a thrill again to conjure a few powdery herbs in a dish and presto- pesto magic! It’s so exciting to know that these new ways of thinking will inspire my paintings, my sense of “yes, I can”, my sense of wonder. How amazing to be assured that middle age doesn’t mean my life is half over- but that I still have half of it to live!

Even a few more weeks in this awesome wilderness is a gift. What a show it is!

Lorette C. Luzajic
www.thegirlcanwrite.net

Why Bother Reading?

How many “shoulds” do you have on your reading list? If you’re like me, the list is longer than a cross-Canada trip on a Greyhound. No matter how many titles I get through, the list always outruns me.

Recently, I did something radical and destroyed the list. I even passed some of the books along. They had been patient for years on my shelves, awaiting a lover, and it was only fair to let them go. If it were meant to be, we would find each other when the time was right.

I am taking a break from my internally-imposed reading quotas. For about a decade I’ve worked in the front lines of book retail where books rush in and out of my life. I am a firsthand witness to the precious impossibility of reading everything I have ever wanted to. I’ve had to accept that this will only happen in Heaven. If eternity is paradise, then it is a library with no due dates, late fees or closing hours. In paradise I can read all the books in the world, and favourites like Donna Tartt’s The Secret History I can read over and over again.

A friend recently asked me why I bother reading at all. Literacy is a highly championed cause, but why? Over and above the obvious- that we can read and write and function in the workplace and decipher menus or cable bills- why read? Time spent reading could be traded for TV, sex, shopping, sleep.

I’ve always felt these things to be hours robbed from my reading time. Reading is socially and academically accepted, expected, respected. But who’s to say that these hours aren’t better spent with my family, or knitting, or learning regional Mexican cuisines? The friend had read deeply when he was younger. Our mutual love of books was one of the introductory factors of our friendship. Now, he said, he had no time for long analyses of people who weren’t real anyway, not when a click of the mouse could reference for you any fact you ever needed. I felt betrayed to hear this. I thought I knew you.

Buddhism teaches that attachment is the source of all suffering (a tidbit thanks to one ‘streak’ of reading. Don’t you also read in topic stints? There was the year I read about Africa, and then a few months on constellations. There was ‘award nominee and winner’ year, full of prize-winning ‘shoulds’. There were periods for Bradbury, Paglia, ‘exorcist’ novels, and a line-up on environment issues. ) Attachment to my books and impossible reading lists has indeed been a source of turmoil, despite the hefty rewards.

I can argue how much it may have been worth that turmoil- how much passion I have uncovered from the human heart in all its guises. Still, I was always facing a to-do list that could never be done, and storage units stuffed with so many volumes that I could barely find certain titles when I needed them.

I would never, ever give up reading, but I resolved to release some of my attachment to its lofty importance in my head. If something more impressive came my way, I would devote less time to my first love. I would release the long lists that I could never expect to fulfill, and simply choose what I was most drawn to at the time, if and when I was.

Since that day, I finally read Memoirs of a Geisha. The day was filled with more time, and fewer stacks of half-read books: this new sparseness revealed her, dusty and alone on the shelf. Memoirs had been on my ‘list’ for many years. At the bookstore, it was embarrassing for me to tell customers that I hadn’t yet read it. I had been in the mood many times over those years to read Arthur Golden’s instant classic. But competition was fierce, and by chance, this one had always gotten left out.

Now, with roomier shelves and fewer obligations, I was able to see this book. How politely and demurely she had waited for my attention, just like the geisha inside. I love books that are filled with secrets, and soon Sayuri was telling me in exquisite detail about a life I knew nothing of.

Writing has always been an intimate act, above and beyond its necessity to impart instruction. This is where the importance of reading lies. Writing is more than a sum of its parts- ink or hardware, paper, information. Writing is about getting to know each other, a window. It’s about how someone you have never met sees the world. It’s about how passionate and corrupt and crazy and stupid and intelligent we are, have always been, how diverse and yet similar in our light and darkness. “I love fiction, strangely enough, for how true it is,” wrote Barbara Kingsolver.

Perhaps you do not care to know how Jung or Annie Proulx thought, and find the words of Christ irrelevant. And lovely though it may be, you do not care to know of poet Esta Spalding’s world. Perhaps Atwood never made you curious and the Brontes were a bore. Maybe the adventures of Nancy Drew or the ramblings of Brit-bloke Adrian Mole are of no significance. You never wondered what the hell is up with modern ‘art’ or wondered how bad marijuana could possibly be.

But perhaps there is a world outside of myself and my own perceptions. Perhaps this world is 5.99 billion times my personal perspective. And perhaps it is quite interesting out there, a veritable freak show. It’s wild and crazy, with heartbreaking hypocrisies and incredible feats of human accomplishment. Magic and mystery and medicine and God.

I remove any and all academic arguments from my pursuit of literature. With no veneer of intellect or education, of historical or social status, literacy has spoken to me freshly again. I’m curious, or nosy: I want to know what’s out there. I read because I’m alive!

And of course, like so many of you, I am a reader because I am a writer. I want to leave a record for others. It’s a form of archeology. I can show you a vivid and colourful life, I can show you scars and adventures and the landscape of northern Ontario. The records are there: some have been made public in journals or websites. And some are still stacked in crates, or in electronic files, poems that have not yet and may never find a home.

But they may- one day, when you have fewer obligations and a delicious flavour of melancholy unexpectedly enters your world, you might reach for me. When the time is right, my time will come.

Lorette C. Luzajic
www.thegirlcanwrite.net

This was originally published by The Academy Magazine and online at the currently defunct but nevertheless awesome Melange Magazine.

Live Plucky: Adventuring With Nancy Drew

Once upon a time, there was a small girl with a big stack of books. She was barely five years old, but had torn through a zillion Golden Books and Disney fairy tales and was stuck at the cottage with nothing to read. Her folks took her to a used bookstore in Parry Sound, where she picked out about 30 yellow-spined Nancy Drew mystery stories. Within days, she was prowling the swamps behind the cottage for clues, making believe that nearby ghost town ruins were castles. With a notebook in one hand, and a flashlight in the other, the girl made relentless notes on the few characters that populated the lake and woods where she was staying. That little girl grew up to be a writer.

Nancy’s independent spirit and inquiring mind were early influences on my imagination. Her enthusiasm at solving puzzles in her world let me reason that I could do the same. Though I was not jet setting with my lawyer dad to exotic places, creeping up secret stairwells and hunting for treasures in gypsy camps, I lived as if I were. The world opened up for me when I began to investigate it. Nancy led the way into the great unknown and assured me that the world belonged to me. I learned early from her escapades that girls could be strong, smart and pretty.

By second grade, I was drawing up intricate games with maps, plots and charts for lunch hour adventures. With detailed descriptions of ghosts to bust, pirate treasure to excavate, and doorways to enter, I led my playmates through vivid and elaborate thrills. I was always Nancy, of course. One day another girl protested my assumed leadership, saying she was tired of being Nancy’s plump, meek sidekick, Bess. I hotly told her that when she began thinking for herself, designing the story and the maps, and doing things of her own initiative, she could be the leader. This was an early foreshadowing of a falling-out between us 20 years later: I was eventually unable to bear that this girl just couldn’t think on her own and patterned her every hobby, interest and thought after the paths I had forged from my own imagination. Ms Drew taught me that the world has room for many Nancies, but she must create herself and forge her own spunk and daring. Those without imaginative, passionate risk-taking would be left behind in River Heights while Nancy hobnobbed with lurking lake spirits, dancing puppets, and masked intruders.

Though each beloved tale was formulaic, the formula was a winning one- grab life by the horns, speak up for yourself, don’t be a wallflower, meet interesting characters, take risks but use your brain, and drive a blue convertible. Have a hot boyfriend, as well, but never let that be a reason to stay at home by the telephone. Be smart, be witty, be clever, and be curious. Live life fully. Live plucky.

I always wondered how Nancy could be so fearless in the face of adversary. Not one strawberry-blonde hair (or titian, in earlier renditions) was ever out of place even while Nancy confronted the darkest aspects of human nature and the deepest mysteries of the past. Thirty years later, having lived through a maelstrom of horrors and losses and terrors like early widowhood and clinical depression, I learned that beneath her flippant, fierce confidence Nancy was likely quaking in her boots, just like the rest of us, but went on to solve problems anyhow, not waiting for something or someone else to make sense of things for her.

The winning style of detective work here was simply investigation of the world around her. Sleuthing meant the requisite magnifying glass, it meant tunnels and spooks and ruins and secret rooms. But it also meant the library, travel, and lengthy talks with eccentric locals and yokels. It meant getting to the heart of the matter, learning from different people and places along the way. Every mystery involved exploring a different history from my own- or Nancy’s. The Mystery of the Ivory Charm transported us to India, where we learned something about elephant training in the circus. We clambered aboard the Bonny Scot and learned about figureheads and clipper ships in The Secret of the Wooden Lady. We added “cipher” to our vocabulary and learned about Incan ruins and Peruvian history in The Clue of the Crossword Cipher. There’s voodoo, Morse codes, archeological digs in Mexico; we headed to Scotland for some bagpipes, tartan lore, and ancient Gaelic. The Mystery of the Fire Dragon took us to Hong Kong. We discovered rare books, the Cyclops, petroglyphs and geology, France, and larkspur cultivation.

Much has been made of our heroine Ms. Drew’s plucky, feisty charm and how it infused proper, delicate, meek little ladies with the adrenaline for adventure and imagination. Perhaps no other influence in history, including women’s accomplishments in science, spirituality, or art was quite as ferocious- Nancy was the preMadonna, the Yes I Can for so many generations of girls. Since 1930, Nancy’s indomitable, globetrotting spirit has captivated and catapulted young imaginations into greater realms. She taught us that you get right back up if you get knocked down.

The message wasn’t contrived or complicated: very simply, Nancy felt that a vibrant life meant a curious one, where education was important behind the scenes and on the field. In other words, living life meant getting off your ass.

Lorette C. Luzajic

The Million Dollar Maybe: Wherever You Go, There You Are

f anyone went back through the torturous corridors of my high school days and told that outrageous but shy and depressed young woman we’ll call Lorette a secret, would she have believed you?

The secret is nothing big- it’s just the snapshot of my workday today. Jet 20 years into the future, sister, and you’ll be at home with your cats, in front of a magic Apple, listening to Jessie’s Girl by Rick Springfield and then, Moby and Everlast, You will take a break in the afternoon to download some Aretha and familiar gospel pieces before eating a healthful vegetarian lunch and a robust, self-invented Cajun chicken recipe for dinner, working from dawn until midnight writing. What you will write today is the stuff your childhood library dreams were spun with: a lengthy review of famous Saskatchewan poet Anne Szumilgaski’s posthumous collection. And then you will work on a reflection already underway about the gift of addiction. You will then take notes for a witty but informative expose on nutrition, specifically the wonders of zucchini and other bountiful local crops at harvest. You will interview an amazing business lady for an inspiring piece about women’s creative ideas. You will need to finish the piece about a wacky art protégé and his 999 Borats project- it’s got to go in on five pm deadline for the hip online art magazine you yourself edit.

I mean, this is living.

Thank God I didn’t figure shit out earlier- I might have winded up writing news, or working in the marketing department of a publishing house.

Truth be told, someone did tell me that secret. In the antiquarian book store where I was later married, resident astrologer and kindred spirit Paul Moriarty “did my charts.” I didn’t know much about horoscopes but wanted to experience my friend’s talents. He told me the secret and I had no idea what he was talking about. Something about don’t worry, your evolution will be natural and you will do what you are called to do. There were no riches in his calculations of the stars- I would have to live on “enough” for the transition to “enough with some occasional security.” But I would employ my gift. I would one day spend the day thinking about things that mattered to me, creating endlessly, with lots of time to read.

I kept pressing for specific details of the career move I should make. I was late entering university and at that time about midway through journalism school. I’d seen enough already to know what I loved and could contribute to, and what would make my life a living hell. But I had no idea where to go next or how to get there. I wasn’t pleased with this fuzzy, broad ‘just let it be’ business.

Now I’ll back this truck up and confess that it’s rather premature and presumptuous to describe the idyllic workday that I did. This day was real: it was today. But there are very recently in my past heinous stretches of horribly paid time in coffee service, joyous but underpaid decades in the book industry, retail, academic, and secondhand, and a previous haze of call centres, coffee, phone psychic, gas attendant, pizza, you get the picture. Extreme poverty had its moments, though, and now that I emerging from it, I think, wow, if I’d been in the news since 22, well paid with a nice couch, I would never have seen all these interesting people, have these unorthodox experiences, have felt this variety of emotions. Who would I be, and what the hell could I possibly have to say?

I am so grateful that things turned out how they did. Every human has their personal struggles, specific to them individually. Each has their special gifts and unique philosophy of the world. Life is hard: I recall that being the first and last line I read of Scott Peck’s The Road Less Traveled. Our burdens will not be akin to the burdens of another, but each of us has got to tote the weary load. Escaping hardship is not the meaning of life- struggle and pain are inevitable in our evolution. The meaning of life is simply to keep using the gifts God gave you and don’t get hung up on broken dreams. Take your fate with as much dignity and learning as you can muster at the worst of times. Keep using your gifts. Don’t be blinded, either, by someone else’s idea of ‘your potential.’ Your gifts still remain largely unseen- things you don’t even think about. We spend our life finding them, one at a time.

My father is a very good writer, and he wanted to study theology and indulge his intellect while working towards a ministry, for which he was a natural. But God didn’t give young Bob his dream- like most of our hometown; Bob went to work at General Motors and spent 40 years in the factory, until he retired. The funny thing is, Dad’s library is overflowing with tomes on the history of the church, he has a son named after the great theologian Calvin, he has studied many versions of the Bible, and effected ripple change over the years writing letters to the editor with his views on his community.

For close to half a century, Dad went for coffee with all kinds of characters who called on him. If anyone had a problem, Bob the millwright was on his way to Tim Hortons’ to meet and share with another soul. He went to prison to pray with inmates, housed homeless troubled youth from church, came to pray with a friend in withdrawal from crystal methamphetamine: my parents lovingly gave that fellow access to the farm during the worst. I don’t think Bob could see in advance how deeply he would touch and minister to the ordinary, beautiful, tortured people we all are. His gifts could not have manifest this poetically and genuinely if he’d had the chance to go to seminary school. What would have been lost?

I sincerely doubt that young Bob realized at 21 that one of his gifts was as listener, a gift sorely lacking in many called to spiritual ministry. He was a man of few words, and he would choose them carefully, a stark contrast to his wife and a chatterbox daughter, me. The two of us spoke continually, rambling narratives of our day. I recall being very small and holding Dad’s hand as I walked along, chirping constantly while Dad just listened contentedly. Not only did he let his ladies prattle about, he listened to the stories of the everyman, perhaps pointing to a helpful passage of scripture from time to time.

It hit me starkly on another day, the darkest hour for me of all dark hours: Dad was what he’d always dreamed of being. I was not able to afford a minister or church for my husband’s funeral (like I said, it’s not all gravy for me). I called Dad to deliver the eulogy and conduct an informal, outdoor service. Here our tribe gathered, the young and the reckless, and listened to my father speak about the poetic meanings behind stories of the Bible, about the Balm of Gilead. This was not what he had envisioned for his dreams in life, but by now I think Dad must have seen that his own gifts had worked out after all. At this most solemn, sacred, horrifying moment, Dad’s pulpit was metaphorical and more profound than it could have been from any other path.

Like Dad, I have no need of fancy cars and a big house. If those things were most important to me, I would have abandoned the foolish idea of writing poetry a long time ago and focused on finding a suitable boy (or a new career). I was very small when one teacher asked the class what we all wanted to do when we grew up. I recall my response: I want to have an unconventional life.

Perhaps I would be ‘better off’ had I asked for good money, or beauty, or an exciting career as a war journalist. I certainly do care for good money and beauty, and perhaps I could have impacted a few minds against war with my gift. What I cared about more than those things, however, was that I avoid at all costs what in youth I saw as the norm: empty marriages, conformity, attending church or school because you have to. I saw myself nursing whisky while labouring over words that evaded me, only to produce in the wee hours brilliant, shining reflections. I saw myself as colourful, with wild hats and low- cut dresses, hanging out where women do not go alone. I saw myself hobnobbing with Warholians, discussing art history at cosmopolitan gallery spaces with spacious glassy designs and retro lighting. I saw myself with long grey hair, by the sea with a dozen cats. Most of all, I saw myself in the library stacks with a silver flask of tequila in my blazer pocket and people whispering about my mannish appearance as I delved through the work of Yeats: the same people would later be intrigued when I showed up in Pretty in Pink-style glamour, a secondhand rose on the arm of a mysterious pirate who I would introduce without explanation as my husband. I saw books stacked in my house, anthropology and theology and art. I saw novels lining the floor to the ceiling and cats asleep atop the stacks of them.

Well, I guess I saw it more or less like it is, though my early vision was a little romanticized. The most important part of that vision was simply that the bulk of a 40 to 60 hour work week would be spent employing my gift for writing, not employed by the donut industry. But I’ve spent my fair share of time in these “somebody’s gotta do it” type of jobs- though the humiliation and low pay were extreme, in retrospect, the depression of the struggle to ‘find my way’ and my determination to scribble my thoughts in notebooks (which once got me fired from the night shift of a donut shop) shows a lantern on the path even while I thought my time was being wasted. For a decade or more I thought I wasn’t “living up to my potential” and was angry that I didn’t seem to tap into higher paying work as easily as other graduates from my university. I loved my work in the bookstores very much- the antiquarian and the Day-Glo chains both had their unique charm. I worked my ass off and didn’t see much reward- a bookseller’s paycheque, like that of the bookstore, is a penance.

Ah, but that’s what I had asked for- to be surrounded by books. I didn’t even see it while I was working those stacks. Though I have nothing in my RRSP fund and haven’t yet paid off my student loan, I am so grateful that I spent a decade talking about books, not payroll calculations or the six o’clock news.

The rambling moral of this story is the antithesis to goal-setting and strategic planning philosophies, a little fuzzy with fate. We spend so much time striving to get somewhere else, to be somebody else, but perhaps where you are is in a way, the right way. Perhaps moving with fate instead of struggling against it is the meaning of life. There’s enough sorrow to go around, but would we have a slice of that rare dish, contentment, if we stopped resisting what wasn’t on the plate and enjoyed what was actually there?

I know that Anne Szumigalski has never heard of me, though she did choose one of my poems years ago for inclusion in a prairie lit mag when she was guest editor. I’ve been leafing through her works since I was old enough to run away to the Main Street library and hide in the beanbag chairs. I’m not sure who I am to comment nearly a decade after her death on her poetry: but then again, I can think of no one better.

The Early Gates

I’m not sure I’ve ever been in a place more filled with love and positive energy than the Metropolitan Community Church. There aren’t many places that you enter where joy rises up at you and fills you. Ironically, this sanctuary of happiness is a place I’ve already shed many tears, and I’ve only been attending sporadically for a couple of months.

Today it’s just a couple of days after my oldest fried Japey should have a birthday, but unfortunately he died a few years ago from undiagnosed testicle cancer. I’d been longing for his company these days, and for others who have gone, too. There are those who think I make too much mention of death, but it has been a big part of my experience, and I think something would be truly wrong with me if I never discussed those loved ones who share my life, just because they aren’t physically here anymore. Japey and I attended the MCC years ago when we were barely teenagers, looking for answers about being gay and Christian. Japey was one of the most flaming queens I’ve known, a theatrical delight who wore neon tights with tacky white soccer shoes or old men’s loafers and a mini skirt. We nearly got shot parading around Yonge and Dundas as youth: that was way back before Will and Grace and annual marches made it coolio to be queer.

I’ve also adjusted okay, as well as can be expected, over these past several years to the fact that I won’t be going clubbing with Dimitri ever again- a spritz of Love’s Baby Soft perfume will bring back his spirit and spontaneously provoke tears in the middle of Shoppers Drug Mart, though. I accept that Japey and I will not make any more ‘antics’ or ‘anikdotes’ as my brother, now 21, called our mishap stories when he was a toddler. I will not wake up to my husband making me coffee, “just how you like it, girl,” with lots of cream and those dancing ocean blue eyes smiling at me. I will not get to know Anita along with her sister Erika, as they grow as twins, because Anita’s day was up the day they found a brain tumour. These spirits surround me, though, and while there is plenty of fun and frolic for my many living friends and family, the only way to get comfy with death is to allow it the presence it already has. Ignoring it won’t make it go away. The absence of these loved ones is as strong as the presence of others.

I’m almost too tired from endless work this week to attend service but I do make it out, in part I admit because I want to pick up some baby bok choy from the Vietnamese market nearby. Tonight Dr. Brent Hawkes announces that he will speak about death’s questions. Once again, I’ve come to the right place, and that’s how I feel every time I come to MCC. The stand this church takes on human rights for all genders and orientations is, of course, a thorn for every other church on the planet, and it’s also the reason that I find it the most “Christian’ of all Christian places I’ve been.

Other critics who are progressive enough to admit we’re all equal in God’s eyes still find the theology a bit watered down. But I’m reminded of that old Hell’s Angels T-shirt: “Kill ‘em all and let God sort ‘em out.” In this place, it’s “love ‘em all and let God sort ‘em out.” Love is the guiding principle that should determine all of our actions, thoughts, fates. Love should determine right and wrong. The technicalities of which stance one takes on what issue is really just white noise in the end.

For those who find us too watery, I ask if perhaps we are thirsty? Perhaps it is the Living Water we surf on? Recall the Scriptures- James 1: 26 and 27: “If anyone considers himself religious and yet does not keep a tight rein on his tongue, he deceives himself and his religion is worthless. Religion that God our Father accepts as pure and faultless is this: to look after orphans and widows in their distress and to keep oneself from being polluted by the world.”

So there it is.

Tonight Brent comforts the congregation by talking about the valley of death. He says you walk “through the valley of the shadow” not “into” it. I can’t help the tears streaming down my face as Brent reads out the tough questions from his flock and tries to answer them. The toughest question I think is always the “if God exists, why does he let AIDS, starvation, murder etc happen?” Brent says God does not look down and say “it’s my will for these people to die of cancer!” but that the free will we were given as a gift on this plane has consequences that sometimes are not just our own. I don’t believe God is standing there, either, saying, “this small child is an angel and should come home. I’ll give her brain cancer.” What has happened, though, in my mind, is that the consequence of our freedom, of Wal Mart shopping, has so polluted our world that some kids get cancer. Sometimes it’s a consequence of our own personal behaviour- I fear lung cancer because I smoked for nearly 20 years. Does that mean I deserve it, or that God wills it? No.

I’ve had to sort out this question for myself when learning to live without my loved ones. But I don’t buy the “evil exists, so God doesn’t” bullshit. No one would ever say, “because tsunamis and storms and floods exist, Mother Nature doesn’t.” Quite the opposite. It isn’t because Quebec deserved an ice storm or Sri Lanka deserved a tsunami. It’s just nature. It’s NOTHING PERSONAL. Brent says tonight that God doesn’t “take” anyone. But He does welcome them home. The night two years ago that my husband decided to take enough chemicals to flatten the population of North America, he was not taken- he went.

It being nothing personal is hard to take, though, because of how much we miss our loved ones. Brent believes we will see those loved ones again, and I have to believe the same thing. Some may criticize this faith as childish, but Christ asked us to have child-like faith and believe in miracles and reunions. I don’t believe we’re all just sleeping in the end, but if we are, nothing is lost. We may be called to believe in reunions to keep ourselves sane while on earth, a valid instruction from above. But like Brent, I believe with all my heart that Oma’s got a spot saved for me on the celestial couch, where she’s knitting away, and one day I will curl up beside her and we will watch Love Boat together again. I always get weepy when I think of the reunion: now is no exception and tears are eradicating this morning’s attempt at mascara. There’s a Puff Daddy song, the cover of Every Breath You Take, that I often pump up the volume for when this mood strikes. It exorcises every tied up tear and knot inside my soul as the rapper expresses his love for the Notorious B.I.G. who was fatally shot. He sings the song with Biggie’s wife, Faith Evans.

“On that morning, when this life is over, I know- I’ll see your face,” the song goes, and that’s the moment that sets me off. It may be cheesy, but I’ve got a rather big welcome party up there at the Pearly Gates already. And I really do picture Japey and Dimo and Crazy Paul, in his rhinestone boots, sashaying their way to the front to embrace me, and Marko sobbing “sorry” as he embraces me the way he did on the back porch when he told me goodbye as best he could. Ironically, he’s wearing the red sweater that I finally recently washed and wear myself, but dreams don’t have to make sense. I also picture Johnny Cash coming along with my team, because I’ve always fancied him to be a part of it, but this isn’t the part I can be sure of, as we have never met.

Brent mentions a Bible verse that always angered me. 1 Corinthians 10:13 says: God is faithful, and he will not let you be tested beyond your strength, but with your testing he will also provide the way out so that you may be able to endure it”. But even if I don’t like this verse, it is true. It may seem to be no comfort in the middle of a painful situation: how strong am I supposed to effing be? But platitudes like “the pain is over” or “they’re with God” are real to me, and if they are real, that means Dimitri’s body is whole again after suffering two years of tubes and wires and incisions and pains: it was torture to watch him lose his beauty to the ravages of Kaposi Sarcoma, to watch him endure holes in his lungs from the treatments. That night when he went to sleep, he told his family’s spiritual counsel, “I was blind, but now I see” and I know he saw that he was going home. I have to let him be pain-free.

Brent says that death is the ultimate healing: it returns us to God. This helped me make sense of the death wish that some people, like Marko, have. To act foolishly and self-destructively, to act in ways that may be construed as reckless – perhaps this is just a hunger for God. Perhaps when we are so lost we do not even know how to act, we are demonstrating the thirst for the holy. This concept helped me understand the torment of depression or suicidal despair: how beautiful to see this ugly illness as poetic. Even then, grief, not wanting to live through loss, is actually a hunger for grace and holiness.

A dear friend played Amazing Grace on his French horn at my wedding, and a whole choir of colourful characters sang the song again at the top of our lungs that September day that Marko was cremated and sent back to Belgrade where his troubles started. Dimitri was not at this gathering- he was already at those Early Gates, ushering Marko through. It’s so lovely that Dimitri’s last thoughts on earth were the lyrics to this old hymn, unifying all of us. We may even be lost the whole way on this earth, but when we die, we will be found. We may not now know the way of the spiritual, but we will see clearly one day.

Dr. Brent said something that put the whole thing into perspective for me. We think of ourselves as physical beings who occasionally experience the spiritual. But perhaps it is actually that we are spiritual beings who in this life on this earth have a temporary physical gift. While we live here, we must explore and enjoy the gift to it’s fullest, but not get caught up in its finality. This is not all there is.